In the beginning, I had nothing that I could call my own—not even a small corner to stand and sell my goods. Every day was uncertain. I would set up my little stall wherever I found an empty space, always hoping no one would notice, always knowing someone eventually would. At Picture Palace in Mussoorie, all the spots were already claimed. They belonged to others—people who had a right to be there. I didn’t. So, every now and then, someone would come, their voice sharp and unkind, telling me to leave. No arguments, no pleading—it was useless. I would quietly gather my things and move on, carrying not just my stall, but the weight of rejection with me. This became my routine—setting up, being chased away, searching again. Place after place, day after day. There was no stability, no sense of belonging. Just constant movement and the quiet fear of being told, once again, that I didn’t belong. One day, tired and with nowhere else to go, I stopped near a shop called Little Tibet. I hesitated before setting up, already expecting the same outcome. It felt like just another temporary stop before the next rejection. But this time was different. The shop owner stepped outside. I braced myself, preparing to pack up again before she even spoke. But instead of anger, there was something else in her eyes—understanding. She said, gently, “I’ve seen you. You’ve been chased away from everywhere, and now you’re here.” I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there, holding onto my things, waiting for the familiar words that would send me away again. But they never came. Instead, she said, “This is my place. And from now on, you don’t have to move. Stay here. Do your business.” For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. After all the running, all the rejection, someone had finally chosen kindness. In a world that kept pushing me away, she gave me something I had almost forgotten to hope for—a place to stay. Our Special Thanks to Lobsang la and his wife. Dolma's Momo Point in Swiss Lhamo Tashi and his family.